


Tell Me Sweet Little Lies

by cherry3point14



Category: Supernatural
Genre: British Men of Letters, F/M, Little Fluff, Magic, Mark of Cain, Witchcraft, little angst, little everything, little shouty, well like mentions of them anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-28 18:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15713118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry3point14/pseuds/cherry3point14
Summary: Written from the below prompt (by the brilliant @assassinofmasyaf on Tumblr):Imagine being a former BMoL and powerful natural witch, who over the years has fallen in love with Dean, and to save him from the Mark, you transfer it on yourself - thus tying yourself to the Darkness, and forcing Dean to finally come clean with his feelings and propose to you before it’s too late.





	Tell Me Sweet Little Lies

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as part of my follower celebration over on Tumblr. A bunch of my cuties gave me prompts and I wrote the fuck out of them.

The earth feels like fire beneath you and air has been replaced by water. Everything around you is wrong, muddled, confused by the doubt that taints this decision. Spellwork requires clarity of mind and surety of spirit but the road you’ve traveled has not been paved with either.

It’s been a path forged out of lies and secrets.  

Your body is humming against the power that surrounds you, not with it. You know you’ll need to right yourself before you’ll be able to do this, and you have to do this. There’s no scenario where you don’t do this for _him_.

Where you were on knees, leaning forward with your palms spread out in the dirt you force yourself to sit back on your heels. Your hands flat against your thighs as you adjust your spine until your posture is as straight as an arrow. A lightning rod against the ground. You need to be the attracting force in the universe.

Each rise and fall of your chest is a commune with the energy that envelops you. Every intake of air you use to clear your mind of distractions. Every exhale you use to expel the negative forces from your body completely.

It takes time, minutes or maybe longer. You don’t rush or try to speed the process. You only have one opportunity to get this right, falling short at this stage would be disastrous. Apocalyptic even. No. It cannot be rushed. It has been some time since you attempted to command power of this magnitude, but you know that you are capable. The magic is not something that has left you, or ever will, and your suppression of it does not make you less than. If it takes you longer than you would expect to be ready, then so be it, as long as it is done right.

Your eyes close as your mind becomes settled and focused. When you open them again the sky is showing the first signs of sunset, splashes of pink and red painted in broad strokes against the fading blue. The setting sun feels like work of your own hand and that’s when you know that you are ready. When nature becomes yours and you become its.

The mark calls to you still. Even from your distance, its existence is like a beacon. Good. Rowena has not been able to finish what she thinks she can start. No good can come from the book of the damned and the mark of Cain must not be destroyed lest it awakens the original evil. Rowena is a fool or so blinded by her own self-service that she’s ignoring the cost. Either way, it cannot be left in her hands to deal with.

Your body rolls forward until you’re in the same position you began in. Hands spread over the ground, body folded in a semblance of prayer. Not to god, to the magic that you serve. You are ready now. Everything is where it should be like a neatly stacked shelf of books.

This time when you sit up your body is relaxed. Shoulders hanging low in a moment all your own before you make this sacrifice.

You pick up the bag next to you filled with all the ingredients you need. Rowena and Sam, even Cas, are all looking for impossible things because what they are trying to do should be impossible. There’s a reason why it should not be done. Everything you needed was easy to procure. Most of it was already in the bunker, the Men of Letters from any continent liked to keep ingredients on hand. The rest are not ingredients but connections. Something of Deans and something of yours.

The strongest connection is forged by blood and the memory of how you got Dean’s fills you with shame. With a straight back and a few deeper breaths it eases away, but you need to avoid allowing yourself to become clouded distractions. You remind yourself of your justifications, he will understand in time and if he doesn’t then it won’t matter. You will have saved him and maybe the world. For once it will be you who makes the sacrifice.

Perhaps this will be your final atonement for your sins. Not that you will pretend to be doing this to ease your soul. You’re driven by the love of a good man. A force which has guided so many of your decisions. The bond is strong and uniquely your own. It may be unrequited but it’s still unyielding.

The wind begins to pick up around you as you place the bowl in front of you, whipping faster with each ingredient placed inside. As if the air itself knows that you should be protected while you work. It’s enough to allow the smallest curve of your lips and the faintest glow of pride in your chest. You are doing what is right, what must be done.

You begin to lowly chant words to summon the necessary power while you pour Dean’s blood into the concoction. The ground begins to vibrate beneath you in response. _Here_ , it says. _Take the power you need_. It charges you like electricity through every nerve in your body.

The sky is stained much deeper now, gone are the soft colors replaced with violent hues of oranges and burgundy. Almost deep enough to match the crimson that seeps from you as you sink your knife into your palm, and then the other. Allowing both weeping hands to rain your own blood into the bowl as the final ingredient.

You speak the spell clearly into the coming night knowing that it comes faster for you.

“Ab manu sanguine hoc viro. Hoc sanguis meus. Maledictionem ad mutare. At eadem manere.”

For a moment there is nothing, even the air freezes, halting every blade of grass in the field where you sit. Everything falls silent. You’re not sure your muscles could twitch if you tried. The darkness that sweeps over you is a falsehood, you can sense the day behind it still, but your spell has created this. Or stolen it rather. Your spell has borrowed everything it needs, light, air, sound.

A clap of thunder is the first noise to break the nothingness. Then a flash of lightning. Finally, a gust of wind with the force of a millennia years old curse knocks you onto your back.

Your flesh sears. It bubbles and burns. It would be agony if it wasn’t so exquisite. Because it worked. Your relief is overwhelming enough to mask the pain. The mark is taking its place on your arm, on your soul, and you will bear it. You will use your power to keep the curse safe.

Or, if this turns out to be the last thing you ever do, then at least you have freed Dean.

When your eyes snap open again, not that you remember closing them, you’re looking up at the tranquil pinks of dusk again. You bring your hands in front of your face in time to see the cuts heal without a spell. The mark has protected you.

When you do look at your left arm, where the mark has chosen to imprint itself, the skin is raised and red, but you quickly realize your fist is clenched holding the muscle taught. With a few deep breaths, again, your fingers unfurl, and your arm relaxes. The mark doesn’t go away but the color pales a little.

It’s not that you think you’re better than Dean it’s just you think you can control the side effects with your powers, the powers that he is only acutely aware of. You simply think you have a better chance.

Oh. And you love him obviously. Love will make an idiot do anything. Give up her career. Sign her own death sentence. Take the mark of Cain from the object of her affections.

When you make it back to the car you borrowed from the bunker garage there is a multitude of missed calls on your phone. Sam, Dean and strangely one from Crowley. You didn’t even know he had your number, but you supposed everyone needs an antagonist, what would life be if yours couldn’t reach you?

Dean is the first one you call back. It rings through to his voicemail. Hearing his voice, even a recording, makes your body flush.

You call Sam next, you need to tell him to stop whatever he’s trying but his phone also rings through to his voicemail. Him you leave a message, strict instructions not to let Rowena try anything.

It’s with a deep sigh that you finally call Crowley of all people but another voicemail. His recorded message wasting time to include several claims as to his position as hell’s king.  

It seems impossible that they are all out of range. Then it dawns on you. Maybe you are.

That’s when your body slumps across the front seat.

* * *

You don’t open your eyes this time. They were already open, you just weren’t behind them. You sit up letting out a shuddering breath as you roll your shoulders against the seat. The nature of your collapse leads to believe that your body didn’t need rest, your magic did.

This time when you pick up your phone and dial, Dean answers.

He starts talking without the formalities of greetings. “I’ve been trying to call you, the mark…”

Your laughter interrupts him, it’s unexpected and fills up the car, “it’s gone? It’s really gone?”

He was free. Even before he confirmed it you could tell just by the lightness in his voice. You had him back, your Dean.

“Yeah, how did you… what did you do?”

Normally a question like that you’d quip with him. Teasingly ask him why he assumes you did something. Instead, you let your laughter die to promise earnestly, “you’re ok. I’m handling it.”

“Y/N.” His tone is warning but it’s after seeing him at his worst, with the mark, it’s nothing in comparison.

Sam is in the background and although you don’t make out what he says you hear that he’s agitated.

“What’s happening there? Where are you?” Your concern always with them.

“Don’t worry about us, we’re in this restaurant and I think I-”

The line goes dead forcing worry to ebb at you. Suddenly there’s no time for tamping down your powers to hide them anymore. Urgency pushes you forward as you get out of the car, hopefully, Dean will forgive you for leaving it. With two feet planted firmly on the road, you recite the words, waiting for the ground to change beneath you.

Teleportation is always a tricky master and being out of practice at that level probably makes you prone to mistakes. You’d asked to be taken to Dean, but the literal translation of the spell was ‘home of my heart’ so, it's only a small surprise when you open your eyes and find yourself standing in the bunker.

It’s quiet and peaceful despite the state of the place. The books still piled high ready to be burnt and the furniture strewn about without care.

Your fingers graze the edge of a table in the library as the last conversations in this room enter your head. How you’d begged Sam to stop, told him that he couldn’t, shouldn’t, do what he’s trying to. You’d find another way. Of course, he hadn’t believed you. He had no idea what you were capable of. And Dean, so broken after Charlie and the Stynes that his rage was unparalleled. Watching him walk out while Cas sat bloody and beaten had been your breaking point and you’d known then, with the threats he spat for you all, what needed to be done.

It’s an effort to quell the spark of anger that surges through you at those memories now. You’d have to make a spell for that, experiment until you could create something to control the unruly waves of violence.

It had been years since you’d played with magic like this. Dean and Sam knew you were a witch and since you’d gained their trust before revealing that side of you they’d been shockingly accepting. Although you feared that was only since they didn’t know the extent of your powers. You’d forced yourself into years of minor tricks. Never commanding the arts like you knew you were able to. They simply never questioned how easily you performed any spell they asked of you.

A part of you had feared that if they saw your real power they might think you too dangerous to allow your freedom. That you were the kind of witch they’d kill without question.

Not that it mattered anymore. What was the phrase? In for a penny, in for a pound. You couldn’t undo any of it now. They’d find out soon enough, there was no hiding what you’d done.

Admittedly acceptance of your situation felt like shedding a heavy blanket that you’d been trapped under. Throwing off a thick material and feeling fresh, cool air again. You could feel the crackle of your power under your skin, so grateful for its freedom, so relieved.

There’s a groan from somewhere that startles you out of your thoughts. You walk towards it unthinking of the possible danger. The fact that people have been here destroying and pillaging, and that there could be more of them, doesn’t concern you or even enter your head. Worry only etches into your features when you see who it is. Cas, broken again, like he’d been when Dean… but he’d healed from that. You’d seen him heal so this must be new, different.

“Help me,” falls from his lips in a voice so soft that you wouldn’t believe the sound came from him if you weren’t looking into his face as he said it.

Falling to your knees next to him and shushing him you put your hand to his face. Magic flows around his head. Not angelic anything but spellwork. You can taste it on the back of your tongue. The bitterness of the attack spell makes you sneer.

“What happened?”

“Rowena.”

Of course. She must be free and worse than that, you’d be willing to bet the farm that she has the book. Fury coursed through you unencumbered this time. Fast and unwavering. You fall back from Cas for a moment making a physical effort to beat it into submission as the familiar sound of the bunker door sounds out.

“So, you think Y/N. had something to do with it?”

“I don’t know, she knew Sammy. She knew it was gone and you said yourself Rowena didn’t finish the spell.”

“Sam? Dean?” As you stand up from where Cas is you see them putting bags down. Both of their faces melt into softened smiles at the sight of you making your heart ache for what you heard, and what you still have to tell them.

Their boots thud as they both close the gap to meet you, but you raise a hand to stop them where they are. It takes a substantial effort to not use magic to keep them in place, your abilities being primed at the tips of your fingers and begging to be used. “Stop, Cas is…”

You don’t need to finish because they both boggle at the angel lying at your feet.

Only after they’ve lifted him and placed him into a seat in the library do they both return to you, taking it in turns to wrap their arms around you.

Sam is pulling away and whispering about the mark being gone even though Rowena never finished when Dean’s voice reminds you of the short sleeves of your shirt.

“What the hell did you do?”

* * *

Dean had been so angry you’d needed to keep a hand on your arm to remind yourself that he didn’t still have the mark of Cain.

It only made him worse when your defense pretty much revolved around repeating the words, “I saved you.”

He told you he had been handling it and he had a plan. Sam pointed out that his plan was outer space and you filled the questions about _that_ away for another time.

“You weren’t handling it. You weren’t you anymore.” Your words are a whisper. Not because you’re scared but because it’s taking all of your strength not to lash out. His tone is like catnip to the mark as if it recognizes it’s former host. It’s pulsing away on your arm begging you to fight back.

“Y/N, how did you even? We’d spent months looking for the book of the damned, working on it…” Sam is patient. You’re not sure if it’s the mark or your own guilt that makes you hear the end of his sentence despite him trailing off.

 _Charlie died for that book_. The elephant in the room. It’s going to make your admission so much worse.

“I created a spell. A transfer was easier.”

Dean seems to quiet down but then his brow creases, he’s not calm he’s confused. “Created a spell? You’ve never done more than simple stuff before. Even Rowena needed the book.”

Anyone who’s ever tried to write Dean off as nothing but a trained soldier has never seen a moment like this. They've never seen him work something out before anyone else in the room.

For once you can’t bring yourself to watch the realization as he makes it. You normally love seeing his face light up when he has an answer. For how Dean treats self-deprecation like a hobby, the moment he works something out was the complete opposite. It was pure confidence and you usually reveled in watching a moment of genius smooth out his features before it would achingly fade away.

Except for this time, it would be your end. This was the moment he was either going to hate you or kill you. So, you keep your eyes on the floor instead.

“Y/N. How did you do it?” The flat tone is enough to tell you he that’s not what he’s asking. He’s asking how powerful you are.

There aren’t words left or at least no way to answer him. There’s no fitting description. There’s not a yardstick you can measure against. So, you get up out of your chair and walk calmly over to Cas. You sit on the table in front of him while he grips the arms of his chair tight, doubled over in pain as he fights the magic inside of him.  

With your hands cupping his cheeks you bring his eyes to yours and speak, “ad officium consummatum est.”

“Cas?” The word you’ve heard Dean say so many times before stings like a cut and almost breaks your concentration. He asks it in that worried way of his, endless concern in one syllable. As if you would hurt Castiel, your friend, any more than you’d hurt Sam or him.

Cas shakes in your grip although it’s not as violent as you expect. You keep your hands tight on him, your focus on ensuring the spell leaves his system. His eyes clamp shut with a final grunt and when they snap back open his pale blue irises widen impossibly.

Ah, the angel has caught up as well.

None of them move or even blink, as you slide off of the table and back away some steps. “I’m going to go and wait in my room and let you talk. If you decide you want me to leave I’ll go. I won’t- I would never hurt you.”

Your eyes are boring into Dean’s with the last sentence like you could tell him with a look how very true it is. How everything you do, everything you’ve done, is to stop him from hurting. Because the world needs him almost as much as you do.

* * *

> _You’d seen pictures of both Winchesters in the extensive briefings and endless case files you’d read. These two hunters had apparently stopped the end of the world. The sentence was ridiculous to even think. Hunters are barely more than muscle, they’re the dancing monkeys to your organ grinders._
> 
> _Except you had to stop thinking like that. You’re part of the first wave on this god forsaken continent and you have the most important role of anyone in this recolonization project. You had to get close to and gather intel on the Winchesters. Apparently, they’re the key to this whole thing whether they realise it or not. Get the Winchesters and get America._
> 
> _You thought it was obvious why you’d got the job. Your rank and abilities. However, with the way Dean Winchester looks you up and down, even from a distance, you fear that maybe you were selected for a more primitive reason._
> 
> _It certainly didn’t help change your opinion that hunters were no more than upright apes._
> 
> _But there was the annoying fact that none of the pictures of him had quite done him justice. None of them had enough detail to see the freckles dusted over his nose and cheeks. Not one profile correctly captured the strength of his jaw. And, most audaciously, there was no picture taken close enough to highlight the green of those eyes. Even in this dimly lit cesspool with him sitting at the other end of this sticky bar they were striking, the colour reminded you of spring mornings back home._
> 
> _Not that you were weak for that kind of thing. You weren’t weak for many things, there wasn’t room for weakness in the Men of Letters. And with the way you’d seen Dean drink so far you figure he wasn’t aware of that rule._
> 
> _Today was only reconnaissance thankfully, no contact. You were dying to get out of the outfit you’d been given. Tight jeans and a tank top that had appeared to be child’s size before you managed to squeeze it over your head. And now that he looked about ready to get up and come and talk to you it meant you could finally leave. You push some money forward to the surly bartender and stand up. Slowly of course. If you had been chosen for less than professional reasons then you’d use all the tools at your disposal, popping your hip and flashing him a smile before you turn to the exit. An extra wiggle as you walk away._
> 
> _You knew the hunt they were in town for and tomorrow you’d ‘accidently’ meet them on their outing posing as a hunter yourself. Thus, would begin the slow and steady plan to win over the Winchesters. It had been decided much higher up than you that this was the best way to gain their trust. You just have to hope that you can pull this off. Although it would be quicker you know that planting memories is not always perfect. Sometimes trust is easier to earn the old-fashioned way._

* * *

To think that weeks ago your life was as normal as it got for you. You’d hunted a werewolf in Albany. Even though the mark on Dean’s arm had still been forefront in all of your minds the hunt itself had been so regular.

The car, the motel, the bad diner that didn’t know how to make a decent BLT. You and your boys. But now their conflicting voices could be heard even from your room. Not words exactly but the rumble of discussion.

You crossed your legs at some point and closed your eyes in an attempt to quiet your mind and silence the court that was in session.

He didn’t even know everything. None of them did. Not even Cas. You’d been careful over the years to never let the angel into your head, which itself is quite the feat. The number of times he’s offered to heal you after hunting injuries and you’d had to insist he didn’t waste his angel juice. The risk was too great that he might stumble over one of the many secrets you held on to so fiercely.

None of them knew how you came to be in their lives. The organization you used to answer to. The people that had probably added your face, your picture, to the Winchester files. Deceased it will say. The first agent to infiltrate them was wiped out. Knowing your superiors, they may even have tried to blame the boys. But if there’s one thing the British knew how to do it was repress. Stiff upper lip. It had been how you’d lived with yourself all these years. Repressing the truth and living a lie.

Eventually, the voices fade to nothing, but no one comes to tell you the verdict. You’re climbing the walls now, your bedroom more of a cell than a home. Tentatively you crack open your door but see no one in the hallway. Trying to remain as silent as possible, you creep back to the library you’d left them.

Straight away you can see Cas is gone. Where you don’t know. Away? Or resting somewhere in an empty room? He would be capable of leaving now that you’d removed the spell.

“I can hear you, sweetheart.”

His voice is thick with emotion and as you take enough steps to be in the room proper you see his hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey. After all these years and he’s still not found the answer he looks for in the golden liquid.

“Dean, I’m so-“

He silences you with a hand held up. Not the one holding his drink, of course, that’s currently engaged in tipping a hefty serving down his throat. You watch the length of his neck tighten and relax again as he swallows it down.

“You’re a witch.” It’s all he says. It’s dull and empty, but at least he’s speaking to you.

You take a step towards the table he’s sitting at but don’t sit down quite yet, you need to gauge the atmosphere first, “yes. Technically you knew I was a witch yesterday too. Just, you thought I was less powerful.”

Dean never had been one for technicalities, “and exactly how powerful are you?”

You shake your head at his second attempt to ask this, “there’s not a grading system. There are so many things that determine a witch’s capabilities.”

He snaps his head up to you meeting your eyes for the first time since you’ve come into the room. He looks tired and you hate to think that you’ve added to the lines at the corner of his eyes. The rest of his face is hard, steely, it’s his cut-the-crap stare.

“I’m a natural. We’re rare. I don’t know what else to tell you. I can do some things others can’t and vice versa.”

“Like take the mark of Cain with a spell you created yourself? No book of the damned or anything?”

You’re not sure what he’s more annoyed by, your magic or that you took the mark. It seems likely that it’s the former considering that Charlie died for the something they didn’t need, but then he grumbles, “what the fuck was you thinking?”

Somehow, it’s more antagonizing than any of the shouting that’s already happened today. The mark can sense the frustration behind it. The mark tells you that he thinks you’re pathetic, he thinks you’re stupid. It whispers right into your heart that he could never love you, never think of you like _that_ , a witch and a liar.

Your hands curl into fists, nails cutting crescent shapes into your palms. You grind your teeth together in an attempt to stop the frustration welling up in your chest from exploding out your mouth. You can feel the scream in your throat vying to escape. He can see it too. He can see your struggle since until very recently he was the one fighting.

His face softens and his lips downturn, but he tries to help. He holds both hands up defensively as he rises from his chair at a glacial speed. “Y/N, just breathe sweetheart.”

“Shut up.” It’s barely your voice that says it for how deep it sounds.

His hands move back a little further in a silent affirmation.

All of the air getting to your lungs travels through those still gritted teeth, canines bared, and nose snarled.

“I’m going to leave now, and I will be back tomorrow.”

“It’s the middle of the night…”

You don’t need to mention your previous command for silence, the widening of your eyes does it for you.

“I will be back tomorrow.” Is all you repeat. The last of your resolve goes into closing your eyes and concentrating on a place. The motel a few towns over, the one with the late checkout and thick-ish walls. It doesn’t matter that Dean is right there or that he’ll only see you disappear without explanation.

It’s easy this time. No mistakes. Later you’ll wonder if that’s because of the mark, if it’s helping you somehow but for now, you simply admire landing directly into an empty room. A click of the lock and you’re checked in so to speak.

This time when you pull yourself cross-legged into the middle of the bed your hands clench your knees painfully while you try to mutter spells into the quiet of the room. As if you just need to find the right combination and everything will return to normal.

* * *

> _Progress report 36:_
> 
> _After the unsuccessful previous hunt, which required a necessary injury on my part, the Winchesters finally took me to what they call “the bunker” aka US01. As far as I have been able to tell US01 remains in a state of acceptable upkeep, however, I have been unable to check the priority rooms, 6, 15 or storage facility 3. Once I have accessed these locations of interest I will report back on the status of all artifacts as per briefing 12._
> 
> _Yesterday D. Winchester offered me a permanent room in “the bunker”. I advised him I would consider this offer, to lessen any potential suspicion that an immediate acceptance might bring. It is my hope that with my current injuries I will be left alone with time to investigate some point within the next week._

* * *

The morning comes quickly since you don’t remember falling asleep. You wake up on your back, spread eagle over the bed. For the briefest of seconds, you don’t remember where you are or why you’re here. You weren’t on a hunt, you’d have changed at least.

The memory hits you square between the eyes. You’d wanted to hurt Dean. You’d _teleported_ in front of him. Nausea rises from your gut and makes you run to the bathroom only to dry heave over the sink. How could you go home now? How could you call it your home at all?

You pace the room desperately hoping to find an answer in the peeling wallpaper and faded shag carpet. Unfortunately, there was only one conclusion the dated décor gave you.

You needed to leave them.

Maybe not as dramatically or murder-y as Dean had but you should leave. It was safer. Until you can find a way to control the mark. Especially since you gave the mark access to magic, no demon skills required.

It might even be good for you to get some time away. You hadn’t been apart from them since, well, since you moved in. There had been days here or there of course but meaningful distance? Not since you gave up the only life you’d ever known to be with them. To be with Dean.

You could say goodbye. It was the right thing to do. Say goodbye and explain. Assure them you’d be back, and everything would be fine. You’d take care of it. They’d let you leave too. If they hadn’t decided to kick you out before then you could be sure that they’re probably of that opinion now.

You’d bloody teleported in front of Dean.

You sink down onto the side of the bed and pick up the plastic phone handle that’s seen better days. Surprisingly there’s actually a dial tone and you punch in Dean’s number without even thinking.

“I know I don’t deserve it but please, can you come and get me?”

* * *

> _It would be impossible to erase your existence entirely. And from this distance. From so many people. Even for what you intended to do you’ve enlisted help. An item in the Men of Letters storage. Sam and Dean had no idea what it is, or for, they’ll never miss it. Its explanation will be buried in the archives somewhere and even then, its sole purpose is to concentrate magic._
> 
> _You lied to them again. An old friend needed help on a hunt you’d said. They had offered to come with you, but you’d told them it would be fine, he didn’t like new people. You’re sure the look on Dean’s face at the mention of him was just suspicion._
> 
> _Now you sit in this nice hotel room. The first one since England. Ever since you’d got here it was motels and then the bunker. Not that the bunker wasn’t nice, but these were Egyptian cotton sheets and comfort was a necessity right now._
> 
> _There are several spells to work and it has to be tonight, or tomorrow morning as it currently is in England. They’re all together and won’t be again for another fortnight. You’re not sure you can keep up the pretense any longer._
> 
> _The mirror you’ve balanced in front of you is faded like it’s dull with age, but the smoky quality is actually your tracking spell, locating the meeting. When they appear, you watch for a few minutes, making sure they’re all there, The Old Men. The only face you know is Doctor Hess from the academy, the others aren’t very public and until recently you were loyal to the rules that forbade your intrusion. Now you plan to tear those rules apart._
> 
> _You’re using a revelation spell to lower their warding spells. They’re prepared for magical attacks, although they assume their enemies wouldn’t have the foresight to attack their warding first. They would never assume one of their own would use knowledge of the wardings against them.  
>  _
> 
> _It feels like it takes hours when in fact it’s minutes. Were you not on a tight schedule you might take some time to recover. You only have an hour though and the next spell will be the trickiest. Ten minds to alter. Ten memories to plant._
> 
> _The mirror, which had lost its connection briefly, is alive with their faces again. They don’t seem aware of what is going on. So far so good._
> 
> _“Memento fabulam. Memento fabulam. Haec sit vera. Super omnia. Verbum meum”_
> 
> _There is a flicker in the glass but nothing more. You repeat the spell, keeping the false memory you intend in the front of your mind. Holding the stone you’ve taken from the bunker wrapped in your hands. Pushing your power from your chest and forcing it to them, over land and sea through the link in the mirror. You don’t feel the blood trickle from the corner of your eyes, but you taste it on your lips while you chant over and over. The lights in the room start to crackle as you pull energy from around you until finally, you see them all react one by one. Doctor Hess presses the back of her hand to her forehead, another elder closes his eyes for a moment. All of them look as if they have a minor headache but that’s not what’s popped into their heads._
> 
> _What’s appeared is the new truth you’ve put there. Of your death on a hunt. This project is too dangerous for an undercover agent._
> 
> _The mirror shatters in front of you when it’s done. Hundreds of spider web cracks in the glass. The connection is broken. Their warding will repair itself now. In theory, they should never know what you’ve done._
> 
> _There’s still more to do tonight. Your own protection, the glimmer spell you have designed to hide from prying organization eyes that may still be watching Sam and Dean. But all of that can wait because for one beautiful second, even with blood staining your cheeks and your lungs still gasping for air, you take a moment to appreciate that you’re actually free._

* * *

His voice had been laced with sleep on the phone, so it had been impossible to read his reaction. He’d barely said more than a few gruff noises. Confirmation that he’d come to get you and that yes, he’d knew the motel you were talking about.

When you slip into the passenger seat he doesn’t say anything first. It only takes two minutes on the road for you to crack under the silent pressure.

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs without looking at you, “take my advice, blanket apology everyone you know. ‘s easier.”

The corner of your mouth twitches as you reply, “maybe that was my blanket apology for you, ever think of that?”

This time he does tear his eyes from the road to take you in, and after a moment that feels like far too long to be safe while driving, he smiles. The kind that crinkles his eyes and warms your cheeks. If you could live in that moment, curl up in it and keep it forever, you’d give anything. You’d watch the world burn to stay looking at that smile. Or even if you couldn’t look at it, just to keep it on his face.

You’re a coward but you suppose Dean is too. Right now, anyway. You’re not mentioning leaving because then he has the drive back to convince you otherwise. If he wants you to stay that is. And he’s not mentioning the mark or your magic. Because then you have the drive back to apologize. Instead, you both fall into a comfortable silence. Hyper aware of each other and the things neither of you is saying but happy to live in this limbo.

What he’ll never understand is you can feel him. In this proximity, you know his soul. You don’t know why you can feel him without a physical connection, but you can, and you’ve always been able to. The black and decay caused by the mark. The deterioration. All gone. What’s left is the same thing you’d felt the first time you spoke. A soul heavy with burden but still so good. A soul almost as green in color as his eyes. That’s what you’d always known about Dean, the biggest secret you ever kept.

Dean could call himself dark, a murderer, a thousand other things. He could command the world to see what he thought he was, but you could see what he _truly_ is. You can see the good, the selfless, the brave, the protector. Everything that was there before this curse ate away at him and everything that was still there now. It reinforces your decision to save him.

He pulls into park outside the bunker and huffs out a lung full of air still gripping the wheel, “so when you leaving?”

He’s not telling you, he’s asking, and the difference means everything.

“Today if I can. Until I can get this under control.”

You watch his eyes close and his lips struggle to put his words in order. “Death couldn’t do anything about that mark except send me away. You think you can stop it?”

It’s a good question. One that makes you sound conceited and power mad but it’s a good question.

“I can’t stop the mark, I mean, eventually it will turn me into a demon like Cain, like you were. I only think I can slow it down. Stop the violence and the anger. And maybe I’ll get a few decades. So long as it’s not you or Sam coming to kill me if I turn into a big bad. That’d be awkward.”

You’ve done your research on the this while trying to cure Dean. You know why the mark has to survive and you’re not willing to risk the darkness. All you want is a little time. As much as you can have living with the boys and saving as many people as you can. To give your life some meaning before you become one of _them_.

Maybe once you do turn you’ll be able to control it like Cain. Maybe. Or a natural witch turned knight of hell might be the end of the world. You’d have to find out when you get there.

He doesn’t laugh at your joke about them killing you, in fact, he leans forward, his forehead pressing against the wheel like he’s hurt. “You’re talking about becoming a demon sweetheart. Yesterday I found out you can freakin’ teleport and now you’re picking out china patterns for your holiday home in hell.”

Your nose wrinkles at the idea of living in hell. “Someone has to bear it and it was killing you, Dean. I think I can make it kill me slower. It’s worth a try.”

“Stay.” He whispers into the space between your heartbeats.

“What? I can’t. This magic is dangerous. I might be dangerous.”

“Then you should stay. Keep it inside the bunker. We can keep you safe.” He’s looking at you this time, imploring you with his lips barely parted and his eyes bright in the daylight.

Despite your promises yesterday, which you still meant, you’d never intentionally hurt them, you have to ask. “What if something goes wrong? Who will keep _you_ safe from me?”

You’re both silent for a long moment until you find the courage to ask the question that haunts you, “if I find a way to control it, can I come back?”  

He lifts his head and stares as if you’ve just spoken another language. He looks almost childlike in his confusion, not the tired man at the end of his tether than he claims to be. His answer is the sincerest thing you think you’ve ever heard, “I’m counting on it, sweetheart.”

* * *

> _Five weeks later_

Last night had been the closest you’d come to a kill. Not a monster obviously but a human kill. No weapon required. You knew enough spells to murder and maim but last night it had been your fingers wrapped around his throat. The rest of the people in the dive laid unconscious at your feet, that was magic, but this guy? This hulk shape of a man who had decided you were what he fancied for the evening, his windpipe had been under your thumb. You’d felt it get narrower under the pressure you applied, watching his face become red while he clawed at your arm.

Your left arm.

It’s only thanks to the temporary spell you’d fashioned weeks back that you manage to soothe the bloodlust enough to let him go. He crumbles impossibly small for a man his size but when you hold two fingers to his throat he’s still alive.

It had been too close for comfort. You’d barely got your spell out. Yes, you knew it was a magical band-aid at best, but you were ending up with less and less time to say the words. The mark getting closer to making you a murderer, again.

You’d killed before. You’d felt life slip away under your hands. The Men of Letters had taught you well. Trained you well. But that was a different you, the one from before the Winchesters. You didn’t kill humans anymore and you were terrified that one slip and you’d become that person again. Someone who doesn’t even _want_ to stop the mark. So yes, in spite of the anger you’d sighed gratefully when his pulse thumped against your fingers.

But today there’s a hopeful guide in your inbox. A book you traced to a tiny library in Scotland and a friend who’s scanned the volume for you. You’re not crazy enough to risk a visit back to the UK yourself. There’s not a border you could cross without a signing your own kill order.

The book in question has spells so old that it’s said they predate magic as you know it. Some words so obsolete that it’s impossible to decipher everything. Even looking at this book as PDF’s on a screen there’s an energy in the air like reading brings something ancient into existence.

It takes hours to do even a first read of the entire thing and you end up with furiously scribbled notes to remind yourself of meanings, or possible meanings. However, once you’ve finished you’re able to narrow down some points of interest. There’s a chapter on curses, casting them that is, but reversal is normally not that difficult. Then there’s the part that really interests you. The equivalent of a magical lock box. Potentially somewhere you could put yourself, magic free, if you ever got out of hand.

By mid-afternoon, you want to try. You’ll start small obviously, but you’ve been surprisingly decisive these past weeks, in a way you haven’t been since you lived by a strict code that left no room for indecision. When you’d found the book’s whereabouts you hadn’t agonized over whom you could trust or if you should go. You simply made the call and continued with other things, other spells and practice while you waited for the email. So now you want to start. Which means ingredients, so that means a supply run.

* * *

There’s this little new age store run by a tiny woman who appears to be dramatically shrinking due to the curve of her spine. You’re watching Margret bag up your herbs in brown paper when you feel a tap on your shoulder.

You spin around to see Sam, suited and booted, smiling down at you like he’d only seen you that morning and your face drops for a moment. Your lips part and your eyebrows quirk, stuck in a moment of genuine surprise until you notice the flash of rejection across his face. Quickly you remember yourself.

“Sorry, Sam. Hi, how-how are you? What are you doing here?” You wrap your arms around his middle in the semblance of a hug you might have given him as friends, but you pull back too quickly for it to be normal.

His smile is polite, “I’m good. We just got in, one of our old hunting buddies wanted some help with something weird in town.”

“In _this_ town?” you fail to hide your surprise. You’d set up shop here a few weeks ago because of the lack of supernatural activities.

“It might be nothing,” he starts trying to reassure you like you’re scared, “Dan was just at this bar last night and some stuff went down so we said we’d come and check it out. I think Dean just wanted to get out to be honest.”

Of course. You’re only some two away from the bunker and you’d never thought to consider if there was a hunter in the bar. Not that it would have stopped you, but you would have skipped town by now.

You change the subject while you wonder how fast you could get out of dodge, “Dean’s here?”

There’s an attempt to mask the hope in your voice with a casual glance around him, but Sam sees straight through you. He thinks he’s so clever, “he misses you too. I mean we both do but Dean _misses_ you.”

Sam can’t possibly know what he’s talking about. As well-meaning as your friend is he simply has _no idea_.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Sam. But um… I’m really sorry but I need to get going.” You turn back to Margret who is holding out a bag for you as you hand her some money with a rushed, “keep the change.” You could have given her ten dollars or a hundred, you don’t know, you just wanted to leave.

He catches you though, a hand on your shoulder when you try to get past him and concern seeping out of those bloody puppy dog eyes, “wait, hey. How are you doing? You know, with the mark.”

He mouths ‘mark’ like it’s a secret which already stokes the flames of your frustration. Not to mention him touching you is added fuel for the fire. So, there’s a little bite to your tone as you shake off his hold, “I’m fine. It’s fine, I’m dealing with it. Don’t worry about me.”

“What are you talking about? Of course, I’m worried about you, we all are. Cas too. Dean- he’s- we just want you to come home.”

You don’t mean to, but your face tightens, and you look up at Sam from under creased brows, “Forget about it ok. If I come home, I’ll do it on my own terms. Nothing to worry about, I have it handled.”

You’re away before he can catch you. You turn back once you’re on the sidewalk again, seeing him as he dials his phone and starts yammering into it.

It was pretty obvious who he was calling and whether Sam had worked out that you were the problem in town, or was just worried about you after the encounter, it was time to leave.

* * *

The rain wouldn’t have normally stopped you, but it was, in a word, torrential. If you didn’t know any better, having seen a few apocalypses at this point, you might think it was the end of days. You loved the rain normally. You just didn’t love driving in the rain, at night, on dimly lit highways and pitch-black backroads.

You’re packed and ready to go except for the ingredients you have out. If you’re trapped here until the morning the least you can do is keep trying.

The first spell, unfortunately, works. You manage to create a small box of nothingness. You only know it’s there by the way the light seems to shimmer at the edges. It’s a shape of nothingness, that it, until you put one hand into it.

The buzz of magic in your veins is cut off at your wrist like there’s a lead wall separating your arm and hand. You don’t ever remember a part of you feeling so empty. Even the years you’d spent limiting yourself in the bunker, magic had still always been there just not utilized. The sensation is odd, almost to the point that it doesn’t feel like your hand. You’re aware that you’re the one moving your fingers, but it feels like someone else. A phantom limb.

A shudder ripples through you as curiosity turns to discomfort and you pull your hand away. You’re quick to reverse the spell and thankful that you can move through the space again without experiencing _that_. For the first time, there’s a true sense of dread that somewhere in your future this may be your only option. Locking yourself away without powers. Barely imaging the sensation, no connection to the world around you like you’ve had all your life, makes you feel lost. You start to fear that you can’t fix this as neatly as you hoped.

Not for the first time your phone flashes and Dean’s name glows on the screen, however, it is the first time in five weeks that you answer. Fear has apparently weakened your resolve.

“Hello?”

“What room are you in Y/N?”

The sound of the horn from the Impala just about makes it to your room through the rain. You jump up from the floor as if it physically touched you.

He must have heard your gasp, but he repeats calmly, “what room?”

“Nine. First floor.”

The line goes dead, and you stare your phone utterly convinced it was a dream. Ready to write it off when the sound of knocking tells you otherwise.

It must take you hours to make it to the door, or it feels like hours. Pulling the thing open there’s Dean drenched from only walking the few feet from his car.

“You promised me you were coming home.” Dean’s normally stoic face looks on the verge of breaking into a thousand pieces.

“What?”

“Today. To Sam. You said _if_ you come home.”

The fact that he’s still standing in the downpour has been lost to you both while you scrunch your face in confusion. “I didn’t technically promise.”

You don’t know why you’d said it. Of course, you wanted to go home. Everything you’ve ever said to Dean is a promise whether he knows it or not. And now he’s pressing his lips together to stop himself saying something that’s on the tip of his tongue.

Instead, he nods stiffly, “fine. Ok.”

His body turns to leave and you call after him, “you came here just for that? Why do you even care?”

It has never, in any of the days and nights spent thinking about him, during the hunts or the breakfasts or the road trips, never has it occurred to you that he might feel the same as you. It’s too impossible.

Until his rain-slicked lips are pressed against yours. He’s tentative and patient with his mouth against yours, kissing you enough to tell you everything but then pulling away just in case. However, his hands hold you still, fingers curled around your neck and thick, wet thumbs brushing your cheeks. You don’t have to kiss him but he’s not letting go.

You’re grateful for the moment to breathe with his forehead against yours. Breathing grounds you and you’ve never felt more like capable of floating away than you do right now. Dean just _kissed_ you.

You’re still not entirely convinced this isn’t a dream and the only thing you can think to do is reach up and press your lips to his again. Your tongue darts over his lips, a hand in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp. You’re getting wet now having been the one to close the gap this time, but a little rain never hurt anyone.

* * *

You’ve been home for a month when you’ve done it. It took a mash-up of several spells and endless experimenting. It took spells that went wrong and one that went _really_ wrong. It took late nights sitting in the dungeon because it was the only place that felt safe and bouncing magic off the walls hoping something would stick. It took reading more spells books and grimoires than you knew existed.

But you did it. You found the right words in the right order. Spoken under the full moon and amongst the stars.

The mark is still there, of course, it will still corrupt you eventually. It will have you in the end and there’s no clue how long it’ll be before your eyes turn black.

All you know if that for the first time since sitting in that field and working a spell to save the man you love, you feel wholly yourself again. The murderous rage is under its own lock and key just like the darkness, because you continue to bear the curse. Except now you have some semblance of control.

Sam and Dean are on a hunt when you manage it. You hadn’t told them you were attempting it again, not after the last time, you didn’t want them to worry. So, the first thing you do is sleep. You sleep well into mid-morning the next day. And then Dean texts you that they’re on the way back and, well, it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you tell them over text message.

You devise a plan. Because they’ve both been so patient with you. They hadn’t taken the bait when you’d frequently tried to agitate them. Dean had coached you through some of the worst rages, even when you’d said things to him so awful that he should have left you on the spot.

They deserve to come home to some good news.

You go out and pick up everyone’s favorites, plus a pie because you’re not stupid, and you lay everything out in the kitchen. You almost call Sam when you start getting impatient, but you settle for a text and he assures you they’re ten minutes out.

When your phone rings you don’t even think to look at the number. So wrapped up in your own excitement that you assume it’s one of them. Not thinking that they wouldn’t call you this close to home, they’d just show up.

“Hello?”

The line crackles for all of a second before a smooth voice you know trills at you, “Y/N Y/L/N? My, my it has taken me so long to get in contact with you.”

Your mouth flaps soundlessly for all of a second, “Toni?”

“Obviously. It’s good to hear your voice Y/N. Although I’m not sure the elders will agree when they find out you’re not as dead as they all believe.”


End file.
